The Devil's Breath (25 page)

The footsteps stopped for a moment outside the apartment. Then the door burst open, a long oblong of dusty sunshine on the greasy linoleum floor, a shadow stepping in, and then the boy himself. He was short and stocky with a thick neck. He had close-cropped hair, and big thighs inside tight blue jeans, and the light, cocky step of an athlete or a male dancer. The old man watched him for perhaps a second and then, as he turned
to kick the door shut, he lunged at him with the wrench. The boy saw it coming, some sixth sense, ducking quickly to the left as the wrench smashed into the base of his neck. Then he was on to the old man, his hands reaching for the wrench, twisting it away, tossing it down the hall, his eyes narrow with rage.

The old man backed against the wall, trying to beat the boy off, but the boy was far stronger, seizing the old man by the throat, banging his head against the wall, kneeing him in the groin, then bringing his fist up into his face as the old man folded softly on to his knees. Helpless on the floor, trying to protect his head and belly, the old man gasped with pain. He didn’t know there could be so much pain. He didn’t know so much pain existed. Every second, every blow, every kick, brought more pain. The boy was like an animal, kicking and kicking, his body, his head, enjoying it, laughing, and then suddenly he stopped and walked away down the hall and into the kitchen, whistling.

The old man slowly unfolded himself, limb by limb, until he was sitting against the wall, his knees up to his chin. His mouth, he knew, was wrecked. He fingered it gently, feeling the sharp edges of the broken teeth, tasting the blood. After a while he tried to move, to stand up, but the colours began to drain from the hallway and he knew he was going to pass out. He collapsed back against the wall again, one hand going to his head. What little hair he had was matted with blood, and when he withdrew his hand and looked at it he saw that the fingers were covered with it. He began to cough, bent double, blood and spittle everywhere, and when he looked up again the boy was standing over him. He was smoking a cigarette. In his other hand was a saucepan full of water. He threw the water over the old man and sauntered back to the kitchen, kicking the wrench as he went. The old man watched him go, trying to steady the fear inside him, the terrible anticipation of another beating, more pain. His sons had told him this, too. How the Israelis played with you, shredded your nerves, left you nowhere to hide, made your body betray you. Of the Israelis, though, it was something you expected. From one of your own, from a fellow freedom-fighter, it was doubly painful.

Minutes later, the boy was back again. He stood above the old man. He offered him the remains of the can of Coke he’d found in the kitchen. The old man nodded, wary, reaching up, putting the can gently to his broken mouth. An hour earlier, it had been simple. He’d beat the boy, cower him into submission, restore a little respect and get to the truth of the letters. It would all have been that simple. Except that here he was, physically pulped, fearful, shamed, hurting everywhere. The boy was looking down at him. From time to time, he rubbed his neck.

‘Why did you do that?’ he said at last.

The old man shook his head. ‘For no reason,’ he said thickly. ‘I thought you were someone else. I thought you were a thief.’

‘A thief?’

The boy bent to him, his face very close. The old man could smell his last meal, the smell of meat and garlic. He knew nothing about the boy. Nothing about his background, his family, where he came from, where he called home. He had a name, Ali, but the way he used it, contemptuous, convinced the old man that it was false. That was the way of it, of course, with the freedom-fighters, but all his life the old man had never met anyone so hostile, so totally devoid of any shred of kindness or humanity. In some senses it was a mystery, something to ponder, but now that mystery had resolved itself into something far darker, simple menace, a quality of violence that made him begin to shake again and turn his head, averting his eyes, taking no more risks.

‘A thief,’ he said again. ‘I thought you were a thief.’

*

After half an hour on the phone to Emery, Telemann was more determined than ever to snatch the Arab, Mahmood Assali.

Back at the US Consulate on Alsterufer, a night’s sleep between himself and the incident at the gas station, Telemann had finally renewed contact with Emery at a hotel in Culver City. In Los Angeles, by Telemann’s calculations, it was early afternoon. Yet Emery, when he came to the phone, had plainly been asleep.

‘Took the red-eye last night,’ he explained briefly. ‘I’m owed a little rest.’

Telemann said nothing for a moment, wondering whether Laura was with him, then he plunged into his plans for the Arab, keeping the details brief. Involving the Germans, he said, was plainly crazy. Assali was living in Bad Godesburg with their blessing, a tolerated presence. If they’d wanted him off the board, they’d have done it months ago. The fact that they hadn’t, the fact that he and his private army were left in peace, was ample evidence that Kohl’s Germany, at the very least, had no quarrel with the Palestinians. Add the new Intelligence about Otto Wulf – long-term contacts with Iraq, allegations that he might be supplying ready-made Tabun-GA – and the picture began to look very grim indeed. No, the Germans would never bother Assali with even the briefest list of questions. Nor would they tolerate any interference with Otto Wulf, Greater Germany’s favourite industrialist. So if the US had any serious interest in either man, then the time was right for a little free enterprise. The place to start was the Arab. The man should be lifted at once.

Emery, listening to the familiar can-do rhetoric, gently mocked the plan. Germany was a US ally, lynch-pin of the new Europe. Snatching Assali from his legitimate address, even if such a thing was possible, would provoke a major diplomatic incident. At best, it was bad manners. At worst, it could prove very messy indeed. Assali, in any case, was an unlikely source for the threat against New York. Ditto Wulf. Intelligence remained the real key to the puzzle, and to date Emery was unpersuaded. Maybe Telemann had been looking in the wrong trash cans. Maybe the thing was a whole lot subtler than either of them had suspected. Either way, Emery counselled him to try a little harder. Time was moving on. Sullivan’s patience was running out. The only currency that now mattered was results, and so far – in Emery’s opinion – Telemann had got fuck-all.

Telemann, listening, felt a chill steal through him. He and Emery had always shared a rugged belief in home truths. That had been the basis for their relationship, that plus a great deal of mutual respect.

‘Fuck all …?’ Telemann repeated.

‘Yep. What else
is
there?’

‘Wulf.’

‘We talked about Wulf. Wulf is an industrialist. Big man.
Big
guy. The rest of it’s hearsay. Scuttlebutt. He’s got too much to lose.’ He paused. ‘You really believe he’s gonna peddle nerve gas to the rag-heads? Put it all on the line?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’ Telemann paused, shaking his head, trying to muster the case again: Wulf’s limitless appetite for power, his brutal calculations about means and ends, his indifference to the outcome. ‘Wulf’s got a son,’ he muttered. ‘Nikki.’

‘You think that’s it? Some broad spins you a line about kids and promises, and you think that’s enough to condemn the guy?’

Telemann closed his eyes. He could see the smile on Emery’s face, sitting in his hotel room, playing God, pushing people’s lives around. ‘Yeah,’ he said thickly. ‘That’s the line. Kids and promises. You got it. Kids and fucking promises …’

‘It’s bullshit, Ron. We’re talking evidence here, hard facts, correlations. Not some fairy-tale love affair.’

Telemann shook his head slowly, lost for words. Bree, he thought, and Laura, and Emery himself, with his sailboat on the bay, and his long pianist’s fingers, and his love of all that fancy music. He looked at the phone for a moment, holding it at arm’s-length, hearing Emery’s voice, droning on and on, some other point about Wulf. Then, shrugging, he put the phone down. He looked at it for a second or two, his face quite blank, then he stood up and reached for the jacket he’d hooked on the back of the chair. The jacket had come from Inge’s wardrobe. It was lemon, with a light blue stripe, louder than Telemann’s normal taste but a perfect fit across the shoulders and around the chest. He left the office quickly, locking it behind him, hearing the phone begin to ring again, knowing it was Emery, not caring. He jogged up the stairs from the basement and tapped twice at the door beside the lobby. The duty officer looked up, and caught the keys that Telemann
tossed across the room. Then he reached for the log, making a careful note of the time, asking whether he needed a cab. Telemann shook his head, grinning, thanking him for the facilities, saying he’d prefer to make his own arrangements.

Outside in the street it was nearly dark. The last of the rush-hour traffic had long disappeared and the Mercedes was clearly visible, 100 metres away, parked outside a bank. Telemann crossed the street, whistling, happier than he’d felt for months. His father had once told him, hours from his death, that everyone, in essence, was alone. He hadn’t made a point of it, no long speech, no big deal, but the phrase had stuck in Telemann’s mind for years afterwards. He thought about it when he remembered his parents’ marriage, the dark, loveless house down in Carolina, his father’s long absences abroad, the gilt-framed photographs his mother kept for family visitors, and it came back to him now, as the Mercedes coasted to a halt beside him. In his stiff, Marine Corps way, the old man had been right. At the end of it all, sooner or later, you got to be alone. Not anxious. Not fearful. Just alone.

Telemann bent to the window of the Mercedes. He’d expected Inge, the girl. Instead, there was another face behind the tinted glass, curly blond hair, the beginnings of a smile. The window hummed down. Nathan Blum. The Mossad
katsa
. He eyed the jacket for a moment, grinning broadly. Telemann looked down at him. ‘Yours?’ he said.

Blum nodded, reaching across to open the door. ‘Mine,’ he agreed.

*

For a second or two, standing in the wet darkness, Sarah McVeigh thought it was a joke. She looked at the proffered address card, then up at the face beneath the dripping brim of the Homburg. ‘Mr Friedland?’ she said blankly.

The man nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘May I come in?’

Sarah looked again at the card. Underneath the name, lightly embossed, the card read ‘Curzon Securities’.

‘Are you selling something?’

‘No.’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘It’s about your husband.’

‘My ex-husband.’

‘Your ex-husband.’

Sarah looked at him for a moment longer. It was quarter-past ten. Billy was in bed. Every instinct told her to shut the door, to keep the man out, to shield herself from the life she’d turned her back on.

‘Has something happened to him?’

‘He’s disappeared.’

‘He’s always disappearing.’

‘We need to find him.’

‘We?’

The man looked at her. His face was grey and puffy with fatigue. He tried to smile. ‘I work for the Government’s security services,’ he said patiently. ‘I can give you a number. I’m happy to wait here if you’d prefer to ring.’

He reached into his pocket and produced another card. Ross had sent it over by special courier. He’d thought it might help.

Sarah glanced at the card. ‘Downing Street?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

Sarah hesitated for a moment, then stepped back into the house. Friedland followed her, a line of wet footprints up the hall. They sat in the lounge, Friedland’s hat and coat draped over the clothes-horse, a steady plop–plop of drips into the plastic washing-up bowl beneath.

‘I was doing the ironing,’ Sarah said helplessly. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit of a mess.’

‘My fault. I should have called.’

Sarah nodded, saying nothing, wondering why she felt so disturbed, listening to this stranger talking quietly about a man she’d shared her life with. McVeigh meant nothing to her any more. He was simply another of life’s passing irritations, calling to collect his son, eternally late, eternally gruff. His work, what little she knew of it, suited the person he’d become. It was tatty. He dealt with third-rate people, riff-raff, petty criminals. It probably suited him very well. And yet … She blinked, shaking
her head, trying to concentrate. The stranger, Friedland, was talking about phone calls. Had McVeigh phoned at all? Written? She shook her head, emphatic.

‘No,’ she said.

‘The boy?’

‘No, nothing.’

‘Isn’t that unusual?’

‘What?’

‘I understood they were very close.’

Sarah looked at him, not answering, not liking the man’s use of the past tense.

‘They
are
very close,’ she said at last. ‘Very close.’

‘And does he normally stay in touch? When he goes away?’ He paused. ‘Postcards, for instance?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘This time?’

‘I’ve told you.’ She shook her head again. ‘There’s been nothing.’

Friedland nodded, looking around, speculative, and Sarah realized that he didn’t believe her. For a moment, she wondered whether he had the authority to search the place, whether this house of hers was – after all – as vulnerable to the ebb and flow of McVeigh’s life as everything else had always been. But then the stranger was off again, something to do with phoning his office, and she realized that the visit was nearly over.

He left shortly afterwards, collecting his sodden coat from the clothes-horse and bidding her a weary goodnight. Watching him disappear down the street, she fingered the card he’d left for her, the two telephone numbers, the address in Sidmouth Place. Any contact at all, he’d said. Any hint. Any clue. Night or day. Closing the door, she turned back into the hall, aware at once of the figure at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the banister.

‘Billy,’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to be asleep.’

The boy nodded, staring at her, huge brown eyes.

‘Who was that?’